


Simple

by fictionalcandie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Family Issues, Fluff, M/M, Running Away, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-21
Updated: 2009-05-21
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:49:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4574001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalcandie/pseuds/fictionalcandie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing about Sirius’s decision is particularly hard to understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duva/gifts).



“… changed since he started Hogwarts,” says a low male voice, quietly enough to be hardly distinguishable over the soft clink of crystal against silver, punctuated by gentle sloshing of liquid. Probably Firewhiskey; their son had come by his love of it legitimately, if a little under-aged.

“You know who is the cause, of course,” the more distinct, female voice replies, with the barest edge of shrillness. There’s a rustle of fabric and a tinkle of jewelry, a body shifting. A less than feminine scoff. “Despicable Mudblood-lover.”

Another thudding clink, probably the Firewhiskey decanter being returned to its dedicated side table. “You mean that Potter boy?”

“Indeed.” Sharp heels begin clicking across the floor, interrupted briefly by the muffling shag of the Persian rug. “You do remember him, do you not?”

“Of course,” the male voice assures quickly, a sharp, lashing reply. “How could I forget him, after that ludicrous introduction four years ago?”

“And now he is all we hear about!” the female says contemptuously, her voice rising a little. “Potter did this and Potter said that.”

“I believe he may even be _letting_ Potter tell him how to _think_ ,” agrees the male, his voice just as disdainful.

The sharp, high-heeled pacing stops. There is a muted crack, like a joint popping accidently as a fist closes or a jaw clenches. “That bloodtraitor has far too much influence over our son. This is _unacceptable_.”

“I agree,” murmurs the male voice, more distinct now, as the speaker seems to settle into a chair nearer the door. Tone growing rather cruel, he suggests, “Perhaps it is time we did something about it?”

“Yes. Yes. Our son _will_ listen to _us_ — or he won’t be allowed to see that scum again.”

“We could always just transfer him to Durmstrang.”

There is a prickling laugh. The conversation continues, dropping low and becoming inaudible for several minutes, until one of the speakers slips again.

“It’s just like Potter, to do this to our son,” blurts the female, her voice barely on the conversational side of audible, but distinguishable again. “They’re all alike, those pathetic excuses for wizards. The world would be better off if they were dead, the lot of them. _Especially_ that Mudblood-loving _James_!”

In the corridor outside, Sirius stands with his back pressed to the wall by the open door, scowling off into the dark, his eyes burning with fury.

* * *

“Where’s the fire?” laughs James, as he is half led, half dragged across the platform by Sirius’s grip on his arm. Around them, other students are greeting their parents, some — especially their fellow first years — growing extremely noisy with excitement.

Sirius finally skids to a halt in front of a tall, well-robed couple whose noses are both exactly like his except more elevated, and pants, “Mother, Father — this is my friend, James.”

James lifts a hand to push his crooked glasses back up and looks at the adults through their lenses, smiling broadly. His fingers further smudge a bit of dirt near one eyebrow, and there are several tufts of hair at the back of his head that are sticking straight up. “Oh! Hullo, Mr and Mrs Black,” he says, cheerfully.

Sirius beams at him, then turns quickly back to his parents, his face instantly morphing into the expression of every child who has ever presented a grown up with something he really wants.

_He followed me home, may I keep him?_

Sirius’s mother sniffs, quietly. Her right eyebrow arches slightly.

“James,” murmurs Sirius’s father, as if it is a question.

“I’m in Sirius’s House,” James announces, helpfully. “His bed’s right by mine.”

Sirius’s mother’s eyebrow is a little higher, now. “Indeed. A Gryffindor, are you?”

“Yep,” says James, still smiling, as Sirius’s look gets a little more earnest.

“James?” Sirius’s father repeats, to his son. “Which family is he?”

Sirius glances at James, who eagerly answers for him. “I’m a Potter.”

Sirius’s mother’s eyebrow freezes in the act of arching even higher, and a frigid look takes over Sirius’s father’s face. Their eyes slide away from James and settle on Sirius.

“I see,” Mrs Black says coldly. “We should go.”

“Come along,” says Mr Black, laying a heavy hand on Sirius’s shoulder and brusquely turning him away from James. “We’ve left your brother with your uncle.”

Confused, Sirius throws a quick look over his shoulder at an equally bewildered James. Raising his voice to be heard over the cacophony of the platform as he’s led away, he calls, “I’ll owl you, mate. Soon as I get home!”

On his toes to better see around the people between them, James waves energetically. “Enjoy your holidays, Sirius!”

* * *

James doesn’t notice the dark silhouette in the tree outside his room until the figure is pushing his window open and slipping into the room, hitting the floor with a thump and a hastily muffled curse.

“Wha?” he sputters, his head jerking up off the pillow, one hand reaching to rub sleep from his eyes and the other going toward the bedside table for his wand.

“It’s me,” the intruder mutters quickly, a dark mass under the window, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Oh,” says James, relaxing a little. The hand near the nightstand switches course slightly and flicks on the lamp. “What’re you _doing_?”

Getting to his knees and beginning to dust off his jeans, Sirius shrugs without looking at his friend. “Didn’t want to wake your parents, knocking on the front door,” he says.

James considers this announcement for a moment, and then with a shrug of his own, seems to accept it. He looks around for a clock, demanding, “What the hell time is it?”

“Somewhere ‘round four, I reckon,” replies Sirius, rising. “Was past one when I left.”

“Merlin’s balls, that’s too early to be awake,” complains James, shaking his head and slouching back down onto his pillow. “Close that window and get your arse over here.”

Grunting, Sirius obediently eases the window back down and toes out of his shoes before shuffling over to James’s bed. As he’s lifting the covers to climb in, however, the other boy’s voice stops him.

“Padfoot. You know my rule.”

Sirius lets go of the blanket with a sigh, and reaches for the fastening of his jeans. A moment later they hit the floor, along with his jumper and socks. In only a t-shirt and boxers, he crawls into the bed and immediately wraps his arms around James.

“Good boy,” murmurs James, scooting closer. Head nestled in the crook of Sirius’s shoulder, he tilts his face so his lips are lightly pressed to the other boy’s neck, just under his jaw.

“Sorry I woke you,” Sirius replies, shifting to drop a quick kiss on James’s more-than-usually tousled hair.

James chuckles softly. “What were you doing, anyway, sneaking into my house like that?”

“I told you, I didn’t want to—” Sirius starts.

“Yeah, but what were you _doing_?” interrupts James, with a tiny, impatient shake of his head which rubs his hair against Sirius’s jaw.

Sirius doesn’t answer right away, his breathing just a little fast. Then, “I got sick of listening to my parents, is all. Stupid Pureblood bullshit.”

“Oh.” James is silent a moment. “All right, then,” he says eventually, and snuggles even closer.

Sirius lies there stiffly, James’s arm draped around his hips, without speaking for several minutes, until he can’t seem to take it anymore. “Prongs, you know what this means, right?” he blurts, his voice a touch anxious.

“Mm.” James nuzzles Sirius’s neck for a minute and plants a few slow, open-mouthed kisses before he answers. “You brought your things, right?”

Relieved, Sirius grins at the wall and closes his eyes, his arms tightening around James. “Trunk’s on your porch.”

“Excellent,” declares James, with another kiss. “We’ll tell mum and dad in the morning, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompts "Young James and Sirius + the Blacks," and "Sirius-running-away fluff, possibly w/slash," as requested by duva. This work can also be read [here on LJ](http://gailsauce.livejournal.com/60032.html) or [here on DW](http://gailsauce.dreamwidth.org/59547.html?style=site).


End file.
